


The Prince's Tailor

by TheGoliathBeetle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humour, M/M, Prince!Antonio, Tailor!Lovino, vintage au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/pseuds/TheGoliathBeetle
Summary: Vintage AU: Lovino makes the best clothes in the city. Antonio is a prince on the run. (Falling in love is as easy as sewing fabric. It's fairly straightforward until you take your eye off the machine for ONE DAMN SECOND-) Spamano. Short multi-chapter.





	1. Prologue - The Lady Is a Tramp

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Vintage AU. Basically, I adore the vintage aesthetic of old cars, clothes, music, all that jazz (hehehe), but I don’t want to get involved with the history, political context, or even geography of where this story is taking place. 
> 
> This story basically has a very Vintage aesthetic, without any of the context. It takes place in a made-up city, in a made-up world, and with made up countries. My point is, context doesn’t matter in this story. You can imagine this set anywhere. Even in your hometown. The only thing I’m interested in is getting that aesthetic.

_I like the green grass under my shoes  
What can I lose, I’m flat, that’s that  
_ _I’m alone when I lower my lamp  
_ _That’s why the lady is a tramp_

The Lady is a Tramp – Ella Fitzgerald

* * *

Down by the river where the boatmen ply, across the first bridge you see, is a little blue shop with a painted sign, where works the best tailor in the city.

Imagine, if you will, come snow or rain, the trees blowing this way and that, a little blue shop with a painted sign, and the tailor-man holding onto his hat. 

He puts up a card by the door, it reads, _Business As Usual_ instead of _Open._ That should give you a sense of his tastes, he says…the same thing, but with a little more flair. The shop is called _Daisy Belle_ with a tag-line in yellow paint. _Clothing Made to Order._ And there is the tailor-man, as intense as frostbite, sitting in his backroom, threading his sewing machine.

He is Lovino Vargas, the best-dressed man in the city.

Oh, sure, celebrities with their silky suits and pomaded hair, they’ll strut about pretending they’re special. But they don’t know. They don’t realise. They are just caricatures. Parodies. Parodies of Lovino Vargas.

You won’t see him with a single piece of fabric that doesn’t belong. He’ll wear his tie to match his shoes and wear his shoes to match his eyes and button his shirt to match his cufflinks and pick his cufflinks to match his trousers and then he’ll wear a blazer that clings to his chest and don gloves that fit like…gloves, and when he smiles, people sigh a little, wishing he’d look their way.

But he has no time to look at anyone.

He is the best tailor in the city.

Even if nobody knows it yet.

 

* * *

 Every day Lovino wakes up at six am, for no other reason than he likes the mornings. He spends two lovely, quiet hours on three cups of coffee. Maybe he’ll read the news, but that’s not important to him. Lovino’s not interested in the world outside his orbit. Some would say that’s a bad thing. Maybe it is. But he loves what he loves, and doesn’t feel a thirst for more.

By the third coffee, he’ll have started doodling on scraps of notepad paper lying around. Sometimes he’ll draw on used envelopes or on the backs of bills and invoices. He draws clothes. He’s not much of an artist, honestly, but he can draw drapery and dresses. He does it so he can think about work.

Lovino.

_Loves._

Clothes.

He doesn’t love them because he likes to look good. He loves them on a deep, philosophical level because clothes are tools and they can turn you into the person you want to be. Clothes are second skin, as the saying goes. Nothing makes him happier than stitching people a dream they can wear. 

One of his regular clients is a young woman with large breasts who feels insecure about her body, and she brings him her favourite fabrics and crosses her fingers as he takes her measurements. She says, “Do you think I’ll look pretty in it?” 

And Lovino smiles his most comforting smile and says, “Dresses don’t make you pretty, Yekaterina, you make the dress pretty.”

She smiles a little shyly, and adds, “and your tailoring makes them pretty too.”

Lovino laughs but doesn’t deny it, because his tailoring is superb and he knows it.

Another customer wants to feel powerful. He is a man with rounded shoulders who never feels tall enough, or brave enough. He always asks for power-shoulders on his blazers, which Lovino is happy to add because he thinks power-shoulders look good on anybody.

“I always feel better when I wear one of your suits,” he chirps.

“Clothes are the skin we choose,” Lovino says, as he often does. “You choose to feel better.”

There are permanent indents in Lovino’s skin from holding scissors too long. He needs glasses when he works because threading needles strains the eyes. There are chalk stains under his nails and his fingertips are always dry. But he’s proud of these little symbols. They’re beauty marks.

And it’s nice to think that the clothes he makes are out there somewhere, making the world a little bit prettier.

* * *

A few years ago, Antonio had felt a bit of pity for his newly unemployed and divorced best friend, so he’d casually asked, “Hey, chin up, buddy! I can’t help with the marriage thing, but maybe I can give you a job? I mean, I really need an assistant.”

Gilbert Beilschmidt had jumped at the chance, because that’s the dream, working with your best friend. He’d said, “Really? That’s so awesome! Thank you! I’m totally up for that!”

Some dreams are better as dreams, he supposes in hindsight.

He has all the necessary skills, because Gilbert is as pushy as he is organised, so he can get the Prince anything he wants, whenever he wants it, and maintains his schedule so that Antonio doesn’t have to think twice about _what’s my plan tomorrow?_ Gilbert handles it all. He’s a good friend. A good friend who gets paid 2000 bucks a day.

The money is one of two reasons he doesn’t quit, the first being that Antonio is his best friend, and it’s hard to refuse him. Even if Antonio is

_the most_

_irritating_

_human being_

_On. Earth._

Antonio does not need an assistant. He needs a babysitter. Someone to drag him away from hotels and brothels and bars and movie theatres and operas and restaurants and any place he can catch some tail, and yell at him: _You’re a PRINCE. A real!! Life!! Prince!! Act like a prince!!_

Gilbert had yelled these exact words once.

Antonio had laughed. “I am acting like a prince, Gil,” he’d retorted, cheerful and unfazed, “Princes do whatever they want.”

Gilbert did not care about Antonio’s sex life, really. He wasn’t some celibate nun or something himself. Antonio’s parents cared, though. They cared a lot. They spent about an hour every day whining to Gilbert about their son who was such a goddamn slut, their son who gambled, their son who smoked a little bit of…illegal stuff on the side. “I mean, sure, he’s our youngest, sixth in line to the throne, it’s not like he’ll be a _king_ —”

“It’s not like he wants to,” Gilbert cut in once in a while, trying not to yawn because he was speaking to the Queen. Sure, he’d known the woman half his life and she saw him as one of her own, but still. Queens are queens.  

“—Yes but he’s still a member of the _royal family_ , he ought to start acting like it!”

“I’ll talk to him,” Gilbert says like clockwork, even though he probably won’t, because he’s bored of talking to Antonio about the things teenagers are told in school (don’t drink, don’t have sex, don’t do drugs, or you’ll die). It’s not like Antonio listens.

This friendship was a lot more fun when Gilbert wasn’t a salaried employee.

Antonio’ll go missing for days at a time, which is a nightmare for everybody in the royal family because he is still a _prince_ , and maybe someone has taken him hostage or had him shot. It doesn’t help that Antonio sacks any bodyguards assigned to him,  before wandering off on his hedonistic adventures. Ohh no, he doesn’t worry about himself one little bit. That’s Gilbert’s job. Inevitably the queen will start shrieking for her dear sweet boy to come back home, and Gilbert’s the one driving around the city looking for Antonio.

He’ll turn up eventually. Sheepish but satisfied. Until the next thrill.

“It’s like there’s something broken inside you that you’re trying to replace with all this crap,” Gilbert says once.

Antonio laughs again. “That’s such a cliché.”

“Yeah, the sad rich kid.”

Antonio beams at him, and throws his hands up in the air as though to embrace the sun. “I’m not sad, Gilbert,” he assures, practically radiating joy, “I’m just a free spirit.”

Antonio is such a free spirit that one day, Gilbert receives a phone call, and he can hear loud whistling in the background, and the blaring horns of ships leaving port, and realises the call is coming from a dockyard.

“Gilbert,” Antonio says in a nervous rush, his tone alerting Gilbert to something very wrong, “Gilbert, you’re my best friend, I trust you with everything, so you can’t tell anybody what I’ve done.” 

Gilbert’s heart stops. “Oh fuck, have you murdered someone?”

“What? No. No, I’ve…” Antonio’s voice trails away for a moment, and then picks up with newfound resolve. “I’m leaving in ten minutes. This is just my call to say that I’m safe, I’m fine, and not to worry.” 

“Wait, _what_?” Gilbert shrieks, jumping to his feet and wearing his coat while still trying to hold onto the receiver of his telephone. “Where are you going—”

There’s a loud, blaring noise, and Antonio says, “That’s my ship! Gotta go! Love you!” And he bangs the receiver down and disappears into the sea.

  


	2. Top Hat, White Tie and Tails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert suffers lol

_I just got an invitation through the mails:_

_“Your presence requested this evening,_

_It’s formal, a top hat, a white tie and tails.”_

_Nothing now could take the wind out of my sails._

_Because I’m invited to step out this evening_

_With top hat and white tie and tails._

Top Hat, White Tie and Tails – Fred Astaire

* * *

 

Gilbert had been savouring his first cup of coffee when Antonio had called to destroy his life, and now, listening to Her Majesty screaming to the walls, Gilbert wished he’d finished his espresso before barrelling out of his house, half-dressed and wearing only one shoe. 

“Has the ship just left?” cried the Queen. “Maybe we can call the docks—” 

“I tried that, Your Majesty,” Gilbert replied for the third time, now on the verge of anger. “I drove to the docks myself, but the ship had set sail. You know how fast these Coast-To-Coast Liners are, new technology, all that. I tried radioing each ship that had left, but the Prince is clearly in disguise because nobody seems to have noticed him.”

The Queen’s study was not as decorated as it would have been a hundred years ago. It was elegant; she liked silks and hardwood and polished gold doorknobs, but the old-world gaudiness that usually came with royalty was absent. This had a lot to do with their change in government. Theirs was a constitutional monarchy.

Now, there was a knock. A servant announced a new arrival: the Prime Minister himself. Gilbert suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He pressed one socked foot hard into the ground to drown out the rising bile of his own embarrassment. He was far too underdressed for this. 

“Morning, Your Majesty,” said Arthur Kirkland with a short bow. He nodded once towards Gilbert. “Mr. Beilschimdt.”

“Mr. Prime Minister,” Gilbert replied, dull. Antonio had taken an immediate dislike to the new Prime Minister. (“Kirkland is so stuffy, like a thirty-year-old tea cosy covered in kitchen stains.” The Prime Minister had returned in kind, privately, to Gilbert, calling Antonio “the human personification of chlamydia.”) Gilbert didn’t have an opinion on Kirkland himself. He agreed with the Prime Minister’s policies, he liked Arthur’s sense of formality, and even if he found his clothing tastes appalling, Gilbert couldn’t muster any more than a passive reaction towards him.

“I’ve just been informed that Prince Antonio has chosen to excuse himself from his royal duties.”

“You mean he’s disappeared in a puff of smoke and vanished from the face of this earth,” Gilbert quipped, ignoring the way the Queen whimpered.

“What if he’s been kidnapped?” she asked, for the fifth time now. 

“He said he was safe,” Gilbert reminded, replaying the phone call in his head.

“He could have been held at gunpoint!”

“But we would have received a ransom call.”

“Let’s just,” Arthur snapped, “try and locate him, all right? And I think we should keep this information strictly need-to-know. We don’t want lunatics calling tip-lines and we don’t want to alarm the public. Do you think we need to inform the Chief of Police?”

“Do we have to?” Gilbert blinked. “He’s an adult who made a decision to go somewhere. It’s not like this is a missing child.” 

As much as Kirkland disliked Antonio, at least he could be trusted to do his damn job. _Unlike the prince._ “All right, Gilbert, why don’t you and your brother go back to the docks and ask around. Let’s see if we can identify which ship he boarded.” 

Ludwig. Ah, it would be strange, working with Ludwig again.

They’d both worked in the same damn office until Gilbert was fired for his long absences. He’d been going through the worst phases of his divorce with Elizabeta, and sitting at a desk all day had just…made him a little crazy. But Ludwig had remained at his post, and now, was the Prime Minister’s secretary.

It stood to reason, really. Both Gilbert and Ludwig were sons of a Duke. Of course they’d get fancy jobs like this. It didn’t mean they couldn’t get fired—Gilbert would know. It seemed that this job was going to head the same damn way. He was Antonio’s assistant now. And Antonio had gone AWOL.

* * *

“Blazer, and shoe,” said Ludwig matter-of-factly as Gilbert jumped into his car. Gilbert looked down at the blue polka-dot pyjamas over his crisp white work shirt. Ludwig himself was wearing a classy grey three-piece, complete with a tie-clip and a Double Windsor.

Gilbert grabbed his shoe from the back seat and threw on his blazer, uncaring about how mismatched he still looked, incurious about how Ludwig even knew to bring the _one_ shoe Gilbert needed. Ludwig even had two paper cups of coffee sitting in the cup holder, and Gilbert grabbed one, the heat and the heady, bitter scent finally bringing some quiet to his racing mind. 

“The docks, then?” Ludwig asked as he started his car. He seemed shockingly composed for the context, but Ludwig had this cool, detached air of professionalism about him. If he saw a unicorn on his morning run, he would probably just blink and continue running.

“I’m going to kill Antonio,” Gilbert muttered after he’d had a couple of sips of coffee.

“Saying that statement counts as _lèse majesté_ , doesn’t it? Crimes against the crown?” 

“I thought that only applies to making fun of them—you know what, Lud, I don’t care, I’m still going to kill him.” 

“I can’t fault you for feeling that way.” Their car slowed at an intersection. “I think I’d be just as furious if I were you.”

 _Furious_ didn’t quite encapsulate it. Gilbert wanted to scream into a lion’s gaping mouth and then rip out paving stones with his bare hands. And Antonio had the audacity to say ‘Love you!’ at the end of his call. If he really loved Gilbert, he wouldn’t make his life so difficult. 

Gilbert was still fuming when they reached the docks, and every curious gaze thrown at his attire made him even angrier. Ludwig was clearly the one in charge now, talking to every uniformed official he could find, collecting names, asking them if they’d seen anyone with green eyes and dark hair, possibly well-dressed, possibly dressed-down. They checked at every location with a telephone box (there were _seven_ ), and in the last spot, they finally found a lead.

A dockyard worker whose breath smelled like whiskey said, “Oh yeah, I saw a man, he looked a _lot_ like the prince if you ask me.”

Before Ludwig could even react, Gilbert launched at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him backwards into a wall. “Where did he go? Where did that _sonofabitch_ —”

“Gilbert!” Ludwig’s voice cut in.

“—go?" 

The dockyard worker pointed vaguely towards the nearest telephone box. “He was there, making a phone call.”

“And then where did he go?” Gilbert snarled.

“He ran and boarded a ship, I think…" 

“ _Which ship_?”

The dockyard worker smiled. “I’ll tell ya for fifty bucks.”

“Fifty b—listen, I’m going to punch you in the dick and break my foot in your ass if you don’t—”

“Here,” Ludwig muttered, whipping out the money and pressing it into the alcoholic’s hand. “Tell us which ship he boarded.”

The dockyard worker counted his cash. Then he smiled again. “The _Rose Petal_.”

* * *

Antonio was on the run, but he was not slumming it. He got off the ship and hailed a taxi, and rolled down the window to see city. His driver asked, “Sir, where do you come from?” and Antonio smiled a little wistfully and thumbed his cufflinks. They were gold and heavy and engraved with the royal seal.

“Very far away, very far away.” He’ll go back home when autumn turns to spring, but this was a necessary detour because wasn’t like life was going anywhere, anyway. He wanted it to go nowhere, he’d like to live in static, he’d like to be a photograph. He’d love to exist in a moment of time forever, yet you have to keep on moving, and he’d moved now, and they’ll never find him soon enough.

So he took in the city from this one cab ride. He counted the red-brick buildings and all the yellow streetlights, he exhaled a puff of cold air onto the glass and wrote an ‘A’ with his finger. There was a river out there, and a bridge, and a lovely line of shops where people stroll with babies and lovers. They smoked cigarettes under awnings and drank hot chocolate sold by roadside vendors. Antonio was a prince, but he liked looking at commoners. The age of monarchies was passing anyway. They either died in revolutions or slowly decayed. He didn’t know which is worse, but he didn’t want to wait around to find out.

He’s not running away, he’s just…taking a break.

“So tell me,” he asked the cab driver, “What’s your favourite thing about your city?” 

“Ah,” the cab driver replied fondly. “The colours, of course." 

Antonio liked this answer. He started paying attention. Yellow leaves, grey water, orange sunset sky, rose pink dresses on the bodies of butterfly women, the blue paint on a shop across the river—

“Daisy Belle,” Antonio read out under his breath. He smiled like he’d heard the sweetest song.

The driver dropped him off at the city’s most expensive hotel, a towering beast called the _The Silver Swan_. He walked through its great glass doors to a marble-tiled reception dotted with houseplants and an indoor fountain." 

“I’d like to book your biggest room,” Antonio said to the receptionist. 

“For how long, sir?”

He paused. “Three months.”

There’s a silence as the receptionist looks at him, and then at his register. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said finally. “Besides, we have other guests who’ve reserved over the next few…” he trailed off as Antonio smiles gently at him. 

“I would like to speak to your manager, please. Not to complain,” he added hastily. “I just have some special circumstances, and I’m sure only your manager might be able to help.” 

The manager is a very handsome blonde man with stubble on his cheeks and a disarming smile. Antonio took an instant liking to him.

“The name is Francis Bonnefoy. What can I help you with, sir?”

“I need your biggest room for the next three months, starting tonight.” 

“Ah, I see,” Francis said, nodding to himself and not batting an eye. “The problem is, that room has several bookings in the coming weeks. We can set you up there tonight, but—”

“The thing is,” Antonio cut in, “The royal family would prefer if I stayed there uninterrupted for the next three months, starting tonight.”

Francis straightened now, looking at him intently. His eyes are unreadable. “Which royal family?”

“The House of Fernandez.”

Francis says nothing for a moment, and then comes in closer, to peer at Antonio’s face. “Now wait a moment, you _do_ look familiar.” Antonio had never seen hospitality staff behave so invasively, but Francis had a kindly, sincere manner that Antonio just loved. He couldn’t even be angry.

“I’m Prince Antonio. Their youngest.” From his pockets, Antonio took out a chequebook. “Do you think that room will be available for me now?”

Francis Bonnefoy eyed his chequebook with cool, reserved formality. Then he looked into Antonio’s eyes, and offered a practiced smile. “You know what? I think it is.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading~ Please review!


	3. The Way You Look Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Antonio...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to do something interesting with the Vargas bros dynamic. You’ll see. Hehehe. Also omg I got so sick of spacing issues. I cannot cope.

_Some day, when I’m awfully low_

_When the world is cold_

_I will feel a glow just thinking of you_

_And the way you look tonight_

The Way You Look Tonight – Frank Sinatra

* * *

 

 

Feliciano always smelled of bread. When he walked past, a passer-by might falter and sniff the air, catching a whiff of what he’d been baking only hours before. Maybe some rye. Maybe muffins. Maybe some butter croissants.  The smell lingered on him no matter how many showers he took, the aroma of hot cross buns wafting into a room before he did.

 

Once a week, Feli would drop in with a paper bag full of freshly baked goods. He’d be wearing a blazer or trousers Lovino had tailored for him. He’d throw his hat on the rack and smile widely yet softly, and say, “Loovi~ I’m heeereeee~” and give his older brother an embrace. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” They’d sit at the dining table and drink espressos and eat breakfast, and talk about the week that had passed.

 

Today Feliciano had brought sourdough. Lovino had always loved _looking_ at sourdough bread because it almost looked alive. What a strange shape. Round loaves had always fascinated him. He imagined they could be like doughy little turtle shells. “I received an order for a wedding cake,” Feli said cheerfully. “My third this week.”

 

“Three wedding cakes in one week? Sounds like a lot.”

 

“It’s all right,” Feli said with a little shrug. “I wish one of them were for _me_ , though.” His eyes glazed over with this wistful sigh, and he stared out the kitchen window and to the clouds. “The most beautiful customer walked in yesterday and I wish I’d said something bold and flirty.”

 

Lovino raised an eyebrow, ever sceptical when Feli got into these moods. Feliciano was the charming twin. It was _Lovino_ that people stayed away from, moody, irritable, emotional Lovino. But people adored Feli. And Feli adored people. He just…he did not have the backbone required to chat someone up. Lovino had seen his brother completely bomb otherwise normal conversations. The second the other person said something flirty or cute, Feliciano would start to stammer, stutter, and panic, fiddling with his fingers or falling completely silent, only to then abruptly change the subject and look away. And because he’d be so embarrassed by the whole thing, Feli would then go out of his way to not interact with that person, sending all the wrong signals, until the other guy lost interest.

 

Classic Feli.

 

Lovino wasn’t much good at romance either, but he wasn’t really _interested_ in it, which was the difference.

 

“What are we doing for grandpa’s birthday?” Lovino said to change tracks.

 

Feli hummed. Since their grandpa had died two years ago, the brothers had been ‘celebrating’ his birthday by having a nice dinner and making his favourite foods. It had been a healthier way of remembering him. Feliciano had lost a lot of weight following the funeral, and getting him to take part in this dinner ritual had been a desperate attempt to make him better. Feli was…so delicate, so fragile. Lovino always worried about him. Now, Feli said, “I think we should go on a picnic. We haven’t been on a picnic since we were ten.”

 

“There’s an idea.”

 

“I’m thinking tiny sandwiches, lemonade in a flask, and I could make a pie! A rhubarb pie! Grandpa _loved_ it when I made those.”

 

“That sounds really good.”

 

Feli grinned. “And we should bring dates.”

 

Lovino raised an eyebrow, again. “Do I have to?”

 

“Yes! Look, both of us need to date a bit more—”

 

“I don’t _need_ to date—”

  
“—And dammit Lovi, I’m going to die alone at this rate—”

 

“—No you’re not? Everyone loves you, what are you talking ab—”

 

“—we need to get out there and just—”

 

“—But I don’t want—”

 

“We’re bringing dates,” Feliciano snapped with such finality that Lovino almost bit down on the coffee cup between his teeth.

 

“ _Okaaaaay_ , _mio dio_ ,” Lovino rolled his eyes. “We’ll bring dates.”

 

“Thank you,” Feli beamed. “I just really want to fall in love, that’s all. I feel like there’s so much love inside me but nobody ever wants it.”

 

“Don’t be dumb, Feli. Everybody adores you.”

 

Feliciano sighed, and took a large bite of bread because he couldn’t think of a response.

 

* * *

 

 

_And now, reader, we must step back a moment and assess our timeline. Days fall into days, weeks dissolve into the sky, and we find ourselves lost from scene to scene, chasing a story yet not knowing when each event occurs._

_So let us press pause on this scene. Our Prince will meet our Tailor by the end of this chapter, I promise. But first, let us take a few steps back._

_Let’s rewind a week. Back to the kingdom with the missing royal, back to the Beilschmidt brothers, who are at their wits’ end._

_A week ago to this day, Antonio of the House of Fernandez disappeared into the sea._

_A week ago to this day, the Beilschmidt brothers found out where his ship was headed._

_And a week ago to this day, they decided to follow his trail._

_And the scene opens to shouting and chaos inside an elegant but presently untidy apartment, as clothes and shoes are thrown into a pair of open suitcases. Gilbert runs about, answering phones, folding shirts, and his brother Ludwig nurses a headache with a cup of tea._

 

* * *

 

 

“Ludwig, are you fucking packed?” Gilbert hollered from across the living room as he shoved five boxer shorts (held in one hand) into his suitcase without looking and before even checking to see if they’d fallen in, had moved to find his travel papers. “We have to stop by Arthur’s office, he’s going to give us a diplomatic letter just in case—”

 

“I am packed,” said Ludwig even though he was not. He felt like a fork was being slowly inserted into his temple. A stress headache. He took a sip of his tea and gingerly stood, delicately weaving past discarded clothing and shoes to his suitcase, where he put some more clothes in.

 

Ludwig always carried at least two spare outfits with him at all time (he wasn’t an animal), and he kept more clothes at his brother’s home just in case. Theirs was a highly demanding set of jobs, so you had to be prepared at all times. Strictly speaking, Ludwig did not _have_ to go, but he had a feeling Gilbert might actually explode if he didn’t have Ludwig there with him, and Prime Minister Kirkland agreed, which was why they were going together.

 

“Rushing around will not make time move any slower,” Ludwig declared sagely as he watched Gilbert throw in a tie and three individual socks with different colours and patterns.

 

“I will actually break your jaw.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Can I just?? Fucking say??” Gilbert suddenly roared, his face turning purple, “Antonio is a selfish bastard. He is a selfish. Bastard.”

 

“I wonder why he’s on the run…”

 

“Because he is a selfish bastard. He’s never actually worked a day in his life and he doesn’t care about the people who clean up his messes. He’s a rich, entitled, hedonistic little shit, and when I track him down, Ludwig, I am going to beat the life out of him and drop his mutilated corpse at the Queen’s feet.”

 

Ludwig’s eyes widened. “Maybe you should stay here. You seem a little too emotional about this.”

 

“BECAUSE HE IS A _SELFISH B—_ ”

 

The doorbell was a rather old-fashioned gong that rang through the apartment, and Ludwig turned to avoid Gilbert’s rage and rushed to answer the door.

 

There was a blonde, green-eyed woman with bright red lipstick standing there, her knuckles white around the handbag she clutched. “Ludwig,” she looked over his shoulder. “Gilbert. I heard what happened, and I’m coming with you.”

 

Ludwig glanced back at his brother, and back to her. “Bella? What are you doing here?”

 

She barged in, ignoring the mess. Gilbert narrowed his eyes. “What do you know?” he said quietly. “Do you know why he’s on the run?”

 

“I…” she murmured, her eyes watering. She cast about for a place to sit, and then perched herself at the very edge of the sofa. She hugged herself. “Prince Henrique told me Antonio had run away.”

 

“Is this your fault,” Gilbert snapped, but Ludwig shot him a look and came to sit beside her.

 

“What do you know?” he asked, softer.

 

“It’s because of me,” she said and wiped a stray tear.

 

“Tell us what happened,” Ludwig asked in the same tone.

 

So she did.

 

And her story was followed by a short, stunned silence.

 

Gilbert ran a hand through his hair. “What did I _tell_ you, Ludwig? He is a _selfish bastard._ ”

 

“I’m coming with you,” Bella declared, standing up.

 

“No.”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“No, you’re a private citizen—”

 

“I am a Lady—”

 

“More than that,” Ludwig cut in, “You are not part of the government. Kirkland will provide official letters for us, but he won’t for you. So you cannot come as a part of our diplomatic team. If you do want to go, you will have to do so in your capacity as a private citizen, bearing all the expenses yourself.”

 

“And the tickets for the next ship out are all gone,” Gilbert added. “So you’ll have to wait for the next vessel. We can’t cut you a deal here, technically, you shouldn’t even be in-the-know. Sorry, Bel.”

 

She was crying when they led her out of the apartment, and Ludwig, whose headache had reached dizzying intensity, offered her his kerchief. “I’m sorry. But we will bring him back.”

 

“Do what you want,” she muttered, wiping her eyes. “I’m going to go find him and give him a piece of my mind.”

 

“Once Gilbert’s done with him,” Ludwig said in an undertone, and if nothing else, at least it made Bella smile.

 

* * *

 

_And that was a week ago._

_We return to our regularly scheduled programming, dear reader._

_The Vargas brothers have enjoyed a wholesome breakfast and conversation._

_Lovino has finished sewing a shirt for a customer._

_And across town, in a hotel called_ The Silver Swan _, a friendship is brewing._

 

* * *

 

“This is it,” declared Francis, offering a piece of paper to Prince Antonio with a stylish flourish. “Every elegant party in town tonight. I can get you an invitation to any one you choose. But which one would you pick, Toni, my love?”

 

Antonio laughed. It was extremely funny to him that the manager of this hotel was so familiar, so friendly. It reminded him of Gilbert in a way. He preferred it when people were his friends, and not his royal subjects.

 

He glanced through the names and the places on the sheet, clicking his tongue. “Hmm…isn’t that singer the one addicted to heroin?”

 

“Unfortunately.”

 

“No, that’s a bad image. Oh, who is this person…haven’t heard the name, so they can’t be famous enough…hmm, who else…ah, I know—oh, wait, her political beliefs don’t align with my country’s foreign policy, so I can’t go there…”

 

“Quite an involved decision,” Francis mused, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside Antonio and looking over his shoulder.

 

“A public appearance always is! And I’m so bored in the hotel—not that it’s a boring hotel, I really enjoy my stay—”

 

“I know what you mean,” Francis cut in with a smile. “I’ve had so many high-profile guests who feel cooped up. And I can’t blame them, the party scene in this city, oh, it’s just the best.”

 

Antonio nodded. On one hand, he knew if he turned up at a big party, his family would know where he was and they’d send someone to fetch him. News would get out that a crown prince was just hanging out without any security or restrictions, and all the crazies would come flocking for a picture, an autograph, a quick fuck. Not that Antonio minded _any_ of those things, but he did not want his privacy compromised, so the party he had to pick needed to be careful.

 

It couldn’t be a wild rager with lots of press around. It couldn’t be a political event. It had to be elegant, low-key, but fun, with the chance of getting booze, weed, and a bedfellow.

 

“A party of artists,” Antonio said suddenly, looking down at the list. “I need to go to a party with a lot of artists. Something elitist and super intellectual.”

 

“Ah, is that right?” Francis took the paper from his hands. “Then that eliminates all of these options. The arts scene is a whole other exercise.” His eyes sparkled. “But I know there’s a party happening tonight, at the home of Heracles Karpusi. He’s a stoner, always on the verge of bankruptcy, but quite a well-known sculptor and his parties are quite upscale and select. He can’t even afford them, but he enjoys throwing them.”

 

“Sounds cool. How do I get an invite?”

 

Francis smiled. “Toni, my darling, you want to get into the _arts scene_ , right?”

 

“Yes…?” he replied uncertainly.

 

“Well, I _am_ the arts scene.”

 

“Oh, Francis.”

 

“I am invited to this party tonight,” Francis went on, and began to pace. “Unfortunately, I am working late tonight so if I do go, it will be a while. So you can go on ahead and I will follow when I’m free. Heracles won’t mind. He and I are old friends, just tell him you’re with me. Oh, and do dress chic, these people are horrendous snobs.”

 

Antonio blinked, unamused. “Excuse me? I always dress chic.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, fuck,” Lovino groaned, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Afterimages of fabric patterns and his sewing machine bounced around in his head. It had been a long day. Lots of orders to finish, lots of clients. But in half an hour he’d be done, he’d lock up, go home, eat leftovers and go to bed. He stretched, and his back popped. He crackled his knuckles and reluctantly opened his eyes. This dress he was sewing was giving him a hard time. No matter what he did with it, when the customer tried it on, it just didn’t look right. He’d unpicked the seams so many times, he was scared he was going to damage the fabric, and every time he tried something new to salvage it, he ended up creating more problems to replace the ones he’d solved.

 

His grandfather would say, “Listen to the contours of the body,” which was advice he’d given Lovino when he was a teenager, and at that age, he’d blushed beetroot and said, “That’s perverted.”

 

Of course, what that meant now was that clothes were made for bodies, bodies were not made for clothes. So if you’re stuck, go back to the measurements, do a couple of more dress trials, figure out what you’re doing wrong, because the bottom line was that every outfit could be made to work for the wearer if the tailor did a good enough job.

 

And Lovino was a damn good tailor.

 

He wanted people to feel like themselves in the clothes he made for them. And he was not quitting until this dress succeeded.

 

So Lovino rubbed his eyes and went back to sewing, the only sounds coming from the sewing machine: _ratatatatatata—ratatatatata_. As a child, he used to love that sound. He would sit beside his grandfather, listening and watching as the old man worked.

 

Sewing machines were exercises in control. You had to keep your eye on the guides by the needle, you had to focus on the line of the stitch, you had to manage your footwork on the peddle. Press down too hard and you’d lose control of the machine speed. Press down too soft and you wouldn’t get any work done in time. You couldn’t afford to daydream for even a moment when you were sewing.

 

Feli had once joked that Lovino had no right to be tired, he sat in a chair all day. Lovino, exhausted from work, had almost punched him. Sewing was the most mentally demanding task Lovino could imagine anyone doing. A hundred percent concentration, a hundred percent of the time.

 

But the results made it worth it.

 

And so he worked in silence for twenty-five undisturbed minutes, and then, just as Lovino stopped to lock up, the bell at the door rang, and a customer entered.

 

“We’re closed,” Lovino said though his voice came out faint and tired. He stood, emerging from the workroom at the back of the store to see— “What the hell happened to you?” he blurted out without thinking, and internally cringed because that was no way to speak to a customer.

  
The customer was…a sight.

 

He’d been wearing a blazer, Lovino assumed, but it was missing. A double Windsor tie that was loose. His white shirt was stained dusty brown from the streets, and a sleeve was missing. There was an ugly hole in his trousers at the knee.

 

Lovino looked the man up and down, and lifted an eyebrow. “Are you okay?” he added finally.

 

“Uh, no,” said the man. “I’ve been mugged.”

 

“Can I call the police for you?”

 

The guy hesitated. Then, “…No, thank you. I was just…walking to a party, it’s happening somewhere around here. My friend, he gave me the address, but I’m new here, so…Anyway, I got jumped. And this is what they did to my clothes. And you’re a tailor, so I’m wondering if you could fix them before the party starts.”

 

Lovino honestly did not know how to react. His mouth opened and closed, and then he put his hands on his hips. This guy really had a messed up sense of priorities. “You’ve been mugged. You need to call the cops and maybe go to the hospital. Your clothes really aren’t that important?”

 

“How could a tailor say such a thing?”

 

“Believe it or not,” Lovino heard himself say, his own exhaustion getting the better of him, “Clothes aren’t as important as your health.” He pointed to an empty chair. “Sit. Are you injured?”

 

“I’m fine,” the man snapped impatiently. “But I do need you to fix my clothes.”

 

“I can’t. The store’s closed, and I couldn’t repair your shirt and trousers that quickly anyway.” Pure professional interest brought Lovino right in front of the customer. He walked in a circle around the man, stroking his chin, peering at the shirtsleeve, the style, the cut. “May I?” he asked, and when the man nodded, Lovino reached out to touch the cuff of the unharmed sleeve. His eyes widened. “Expensive fabric. I can tell it’s very well made. Is it cotton?”

 

The man smiled, exposing perfect, camera-ready teeth. “You’re good.”

 

“I know,” Lovino retorted with a sly smile that went as quickly as it came. He was _flirting._ They were _flirting_ , right? But he was attractive, and technically speaking, Lovino was off the clock, so this was allowed.

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Lovino.”

 

“I’m Antonio.”

 

“Nice to meet you. Are you a tourist?”

 

Antonio grinned slightly. “You could say that.”

 

“Ah, out-of-towner. I guess that explains your accent. You should know better than to wander around these parts at night wearing clothes as expensive as these.” Lovino smirked—again, fleetingly—and walked back behind the shop counter. “You can leave the clothes here if you like, I’ll fix them tomorrow. But I can’t help you right now.”

 

Antonio barked out a laugh. “If I leave them here, Lovino, what will I wear?”

 

He narrowed his eyes. “Where what you like, or don’t. It matters nothing to me.” He did not move as Antonio leaned forward onto the counter, resting his cheek in his hand.

 

“I have to go to a party though, and I can’t go there naked.”

 

“This is the arts district. You’d get away with it. All sorts here.”

 

“Oh? And what sort are you?”

 

“I’m the sort,” Lovino replied without missing a beat, “that will not do a thing for you tonight. So,” he pointed to the door.

 

“Titillating conversation,” Antonio complimented without warning, his manner shifting from relentless horndog to amused flower-child. He was grinning and his eyes were full of a sort of mischievous innocence. “But seriously, I do need to go to a party and I can’t go in rags, so what do you suggest?”

 

“I suggest you go bother someone else.”

 

“Oh, come on, you’re going to decline to help a man who has just been mugged?”

 

Lovino rolled his eyes, yet smiled despite himself. “What do you want me to do?”

 

“Fix my shirt.”

 

“I can’t.” He gestured around. “I mean, look at it. Firstly, I’m not sure I have the right fabric, so I’ll probably have to make you a new one from scratch. Second, not only is the sleeve missing, but so are a few of the buttons. Third, I noticed that the darts at the back have come loose.”

 

“It was…a scuffle, yes.”

 

“Did they take your wallet?”

 

“All my cash,” muttered Antonio without much concern.

 

“Uh-huh. And how would you pay me then, anyway?” Again, Lovino marched out from behind the counter and pointed at Antonio’s trousers. “I could patch the hole, but matching fabric is vital for that, and you’re wearing _black and green pinstripes_. I have nothing like it. I could still darn it, but it would look ugly. Seriously, what do you want me to do now, anyway? You find me the fabrics, I’ll fix your clothes. But it’s almost eight pm, so good luck finding a store that is still open.”

 

Antonio listened to this with obviously increasing frustration. “Then what do I do?” he cried, throwing his hands up. “I really want to go to this party, I haven’t gone out in a week and it’s driving me insane.”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, fine,” Lovino snapped, pressing the bridge of his nose. He was sooooo hungry, so tired. “Just come over, my apartment’s a two-minute walk from here. I’ll lend you something.”

 

“ _Really_?”

 

“Yes, if I get your custom.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Great.” And whirling at Antonio with a pair of scissors he’d whipped out of his breast pocket, he added, “Oh, and if you try anything funny, I won’t hesitate. I’m a tailor, I work with sharp objects all day, and I know how to use them. Behave yourself.”

 

Antonio smiled and brought his hands up in surrender. “I will be the best house guest you have ever had. Promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was so satisfying.


	4. I've Heard That Song Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, my dudes! I know, I know, I haven’t updated in AGES but I’ve been swamped with my Masters’ degree, andddddd I HAVE HUGE NEWS 
> 
> I’ll tell you at the end of the chapter but like it’s 
> 
> HUGE  
> NEWS

 

 _It seems, to me, I’ve heard that song before_  
_It’s from an old familiar score_  
 _I know it well, that melody_  
 _It’s funny, how a theme recalls a favourite dream_  
 _A dream that brought you so close to me_  
 _I know each word, because I’ve heard that song before_  
  
I’ve Heard That Song Before – Helen Forrest, Harry James

 

* * *

 

Lovino had never been in love. He’d had plenty of affairs, but they were always superficial, one-two-three-night-stands. Their names and faces all blurred together, and the pleasure had no meaning or depth. This was partly Lovino’s fault. He was never free from work. He chose not to be free from work. He buried himself in it. Work was…easy. Familiar. He could handle anything that needles and fabric could throw at him. Even on weekends, he would rather make himself a new shirt from a sewing pattern he’d bought at the store than go out on a date.

 

He wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t faced any deep and scarring emotional trauma that had left him with debilitating trust issues. It was perhaps just that his work required less effort. People needed far more. Effort, time, and commitment. And Lovino had never felt willing to surrender ground on these fronts.

 

Yet, each time he laid eyes on a handsome stranger, he’d wonder, _is he the one? Do I have a soulmate? Is that him?_ The moment was always fleeting and wistful, silly. Childish. But the thought did cross his mind as he let his…customer through the front door of his apartment.

 

Antonio glanced around at the fading wallpaper and second-hand couch. “This is cosy,” he said cheerfully.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lovino muttered, walking past the living room to his bedroom. “In here.”

 

“Nice bed,” Antonio said casually as he noticed the lavender sheets and the four overstuffed pillows. Lovino’s cheeks darkened, he ignored the comment. Instead, he opened his wardrobe and rifled through.

 

“You’re a size bigger than me, and perhaps two inches taller,” Lovino rattled off, throwing one glance back to Antonio for confirmation. “So I can lend you my grandfather’s clothes, you’ll probably fit into them. But take care of them. Sentimental value.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“So,” Lovino asked as he pulled out his grandfather’s old trousers and his best black shirt. “Whereabouts are you from?”

 

Antonio put his hands in his pockets. “I took a ship here.”

 

Lovino’s honey eyes narrowed as he raised both eyebrows. “That wasn’t my question.”

 

Antonio sighed. Rubbed his face. And finally told him.

 

“Oh wow, that’s a long ways away.”

 

“Not if you board a fast ship.”

 

Lovino was still watching him, made curious by his manner. Antonio seemed to be acting…shifty. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and started to fidget. Under Lovino’s gaze, he averted his eyes twice before looking back up at him.

 

“Talking about it makes you uncomfortable?” Lovino guessed, making Antonio smile slightly. It was the brief, shallow smile of a man caught guilty.

 

“I guess. Yeah. Primarily, I just felt I needed a change of pace.”

 

“Oh?” Lovino handed Antonio the clothes. “So what are your plans now that you’re here?”

 

The question really seemed to catch Antonio off guard. “Plans? Why would I want to have _plans_?”

 

Lovino snorted. “Try on these clothes, see if they fit.” He pointed to a smaller door at the back of the room. “Toilet’s there.”

 

When Antonio emerged a few minutes later, Lovino expected to be underwhelmed but…strangely, somehow, the clothes worked. The caught on his shoulders well, they hugged his torso and—Lovino mused with a shadow of a grin—his ass. But there was more work to do.

 

On the bed, Lovino had laid out a grey vest and a—

 

“Is that a purple ascot?” Antonio laughed, picking it up and putting it against his throat as he stared at his reflection in the dressing table mirror.

 

“Just trust me.”

 

“Okay,” Antonio smiled, and this time Lovino copied the movement of his lips, until they were both staring at each other for a few seconds of unbroken eye-contact, smiling in a strange, fond way.

 

The vest fit him too, and the ascot classed up the look instantly. All that was left was the coat, which Lovino produced again from his own wardrobe, yet another artefact that had once belonged to his grandfather.

 

“It’s old-fashioned, isn’t it?” Antonio wondered, looking at his reflection once more.

 

“Perhaps, but in a classy way.”

 

“Okay. I trust you on this, my tailor friend.” Antonio suddenly grinned. “Hey! Why don’t you join me?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The party! It’d be nice not to go alone. And this way you can ensure I’m not ruining your lovely clothes.”

 

“I don’t…” _think that’s a good idea_ , Lovino was about to say, but something in his mouth argued with his mind, because for a split second, Lovino thought, _why the hell not?_ Antonio didn’t seem to be a threat. He seemed nice enough, and cute, and hopefully this would lead to another meaningless affair. He hadn’t had one in a while, and he was starting to get bored. Besides, hadn’t his brother insisted Lovino bring a _date_ to their grandfather’s birthday picnic? “…mind,” Lovino finished, and then blinked at his own courage. “I mean, if you give me a bit of time to get ready.”

 

“Of course!” Antonio said with a small jump of joy. “And you can protect me from any more muggers.”

 

“Or we can _both_ get mugged.”

 

“That’s the kind of night worth having.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrrrrry for this short chapter! Like I said my Masters’ degree is kicking my butt. 
> 
> ANYWAY, THE BIG NEWS!  
> OKAY SO
> 
> I  
> GOT  
> PUBLISHED
> 
> !!!!!
> 
> My novel is officially out! You can buy it on Amazon USA and Amazon India. (But if you live outside of those two countries, you can still buy it. I can post you a copy personally. Just get in touch with me on tumblr to work out the details!)
> 
> Amazon USA: https://www.amazon.com/Sunlight-Plane-Damini-Kane/dp/B07CKLP34W/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8
> 
> Amazon India: https://www.amazon.in/Sunlight-Plane-Damini-Kane/dp/B07CKLP34W
> 
> My tumblr in case you want to get in touch: http://thegoliathbeetle.tumblr.com/


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